Punchline

Yellow Penske trucks,
hospital hand towels,
ventriloquist dummies,
silver candlesticks.
All puppets—
socks to marionnettes—
it will never matter.

Rolling farmland,
Canadian cities
(except, perhaps, Porcupine Plain and Winnipeg).
Lice combs, shaving brushes,
proscenium stages, the hole
in the roof, the maple roots
forcing their way into the pipes.

When I flush the downstairs toilet,
the sink gurgles and small insects
spray out of the drain. They will
be here, all week. Tell your friends
you enjoyed the show.

Another Penske truck, just ahead.
I cannot understand why
no one is laughing, why
no one hangs out of a car
window, applauding.

Surely there was laughter when
we first uttered the absurdest
of words: divorce. As if!
We killed that night.

The parallel gold lines
painted on the asphalt of Route 2?
They irritate the tough crowd,
blazing autumn trees,
who know better than to pair up,
who know better than to try
to stay the same.

***Head to the fallout shelter to leave comments. My spambot has gone crazy.